


All States and All Princes

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: hc bingo 2016 [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Early Modern Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7373701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in repose to hurt/comfort bingo square: archaic medicine. </p><p>Arthur is writing a play. His father takes him from London to escape the plague. He finds a troupe of actors to help him put the play on. Merlin is their playwright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/gifts).



> To Glim, my Google, light of my Early-Modern universe, sharer in all things Renaissance and gay, and gold mine of poetic information. This is yours. Every word, every letter, every moment. Except the bits I nicked from other people, because they're not really mine to give.
> 
> visual aids (and proof that 'Merlin' is real and not fantasy): 
> 
> https://nu.aeon.co/images/4caa34b1-b0b4-4995-a419-c5d5e6c6c511/header_Portrait-of-a-gentleman.jpg
> 
> http://c0728562.cdn.cloudfiles.rackspacecloud.com/CH151118_HR.jpg
> 
> https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTCnH4w0sEt-wYkWWZeYuZTfc_3INygbAnxGySw2iJyQVau4i2sMg
> 
> WARNINGS: illness, archaic medical practices, Galenic medicine, might be considered abuse because you know, medicine was shit back then.

 

> [[they hang him in the arbour]... [they stab him]... For want of ink, receive this bloody writ… First take my tongue, and afterwards my heart [he bites out his tongue]](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spanish_Tragedy)
> 
>  
> 
> [I’ll grind your bones to dust/ and with your blood and it I’ll make a paste... [he cuts their throats]... Receive the blood: and when that they are dead,/ Let me go grind their bones to powder small/ And with this hateful liquor temper it;/ And in that paste let their vile heads be baked.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titus_Andronicus)
> 
>  

Blood drips into the bowl, steady, thick. It’s not black. Black bile, but blood-red.

 

“I told the man that I would come, but did he listen? He did not.

I cut his throat and took his coat and left him in the freezing night.”

 

He’s mad. He must be mad.

 

“Sing they said and so I sang but what are songs in dead of night?

For frozen left upon the ground and dead they thought but I was found.

 

Can you survive having your throat cut, Doctor?”

 

“Yes, Arthur. Lie still.”

 

“I pressed a hand to gaping wound, and gory with the other’s deed,

I stumbled, wretched, in the mud, until I stained it red.

 

But not dead, do you see? And then he takes revenge.”

 

“They are both ‘I’, I can’t tell them apart.”

 

“Ah, but they’ll be acted by two different players. Each will be ‘I’ but neither will be ‘Arthur’. That’s easy.”

 

“Lie still.”

 

Arthur sighs and watches the blood thickening. His arms are scarred with marks like this. Leon tells him it is the only way to help. Perhaps Leon is mad, and Arthur is sane.

 

“The blood upon my hands is his own, he cannot avenge himself,

He is not dead, no angel takes the side of wounded men.”

 

“Arthur, quiet. Are you done here, doctor?”

 

Arthur looks blearily up at his father as Leon binds his arm tightly, stopping the flow of blood. Arthur gazes into the bowl. He remembers being very small and watching them bleed a pig.

 

“I’ll bleed you dry, and turn out black pudding by and by.”

 

“He’s writing his play,” Leon says, packing his bag. “Summer’s coming, sir.”

 

“Any cases?” Uther asks.

 

“Not yet. I’ll let you know what I hear,” Leon says.

 

Arthur looks at the bindings on his arm.

 

“White limbs like winter, withering, and who is here to see?

Revenge cannot be taken for a self who exists as nothing but a dying tree.

If frost don’t take me, blood don’t drown me, winter does not wither me,

What am I? My blood is on my own hands, now.

 

He cuts his own throat, side to side.”

 

Someone tells him to be quiet. Arthur closes his eyes, wishes for a pen and ink. He dips his finger into the bowl of his blood and writes on his bandaged arm: Arthur. His name. Himself. Circular. A self writing a self on a self.

 

**

 

“Father, I’ll open the window.”

 

“No, Arthur, not until we’re out of the city. We don’t want people looking in, or to catch their evil breath, or to let the stink of the sickness permeate here.”

 

Arthur lies on the floor of the coach and listens to the muddy ruts passing beneath them at a great rate. He hopes his father remembered to pack his Seneca, and his Sidney. No blood, in Sidney, but a lot of love. Arthur approves of blood and love. His play will have both. His play will have thunder and lightening, a storm. Hoards of fighting men. Maybe some pirates.

 

Arthur lays his bandaged arm over his eyes, and lets his head jolt against the solid bottom of the coach. His father insists they travel in style, which means they go slower than Arthur might riding Llamrei or Hengroen. His father promises he has both stabled on the estate, and Arthur can ride there. Arthur had hoped to ride one or the other over, and skip this interminable coach trip with his father.

 

Arthur lifts his arm and examines the bandages. Leon is neat and tidy, but quick. Arthur unpicks the end and unwinds his arm. It sticks with congealed blood, and when he tears it off, fresh comes, redder. He unwinds his other arm, too. The blood slows and thickens quickly. His arms shake, held above his head like that. He becomes aware of his father watching him.

 

“They said the sea would save me,

The salt would cure my wounds,

But all it does is-”

 

“Arthur! Stop that,” his father interrupts.

 

The flow of words judders to a halt. Arthur gets up onto the bench and sits still, head heavy and thick. He wants to look out, but the shades are drawn. Instead he lets his head fall to his breast, heavy. He listens to the hooves of their team. Six horses, two coachmen, three servants riding on the back, seven armed men riding horses on guard.

 

Arthur falls asleep between counting one thing and another. He dreams, as he always does, about the sound of the blood, the sharp knife, Leon. Doctor Leon Strong, the beautiful man who stands over Arthur, weak and helpless, nothing to him but white and blood and withering. Mad and helpless. Leon in the dreams picks him up, bearing him like a child to the river, immersing him. All his blood smokes in clouds into the water, emptying out of him, his imbalanced humours coming out and new ones washing in with the salt water.

 

When he comes up for air, Leon is gone and he’s back in the coach. His father’s opened the windows, and Arthur can see Camelot house. They’re already on the estate, to be able to see the house. He looks out and recognises the fields, the trees. This is his summer world. Nothing ever changes, nothing ever happens.

 

The horses clatter into the courtyard, the coach bumping behind them, coming to a rough stop. Uther steps out and holds up a hand, waiting impatiently for Arthur to unbend himself and get his stiff legs to work. Arthur takes the hand and is passed carefully down to earth, steadied until his balance rights. When the world stops spinning, he sees Morgana coming down the steps, on Leon’s arm. Arthur turns to Uther.

 

“Did you find the latest Jonson folio, father?” Arthur asks.

 

Uther stares at him, then stomps off. Past Morgana and Leon, and into the house. Arthur turns to his father’s ward and greets her with a bow that nearly sends him head first to the ground. Leon catches and steadies him, luckily.

 

“I shall write a comedy,” Arthur states, straightening himself out and kissing Morgana’s cheek. “You shall come up with insults for me.”

 

“Get inside, you bloated wart, I have other things to do than keep you from falling in the mud,” Morgana says.

 

She’s smiling, though, so Arthur thinks she might be glad to see him. Perhaps not glad that they’re here, interrupting her beautiful life of balls and filling the house with women and writing and paying women to write and being a benefactor and driving Uther round the bend. And making love to them, of course. Arthur knows about that. But she is perhaps glad to see him. Just a little bit.

 

Leon escorts them both into the house, to one of the reception rooms. There’s a couch there for Arthur to lie on, and Morgana can sit at a desk and write letters to her lovers to warn them of Uther taking up residence. Arthur hopes it’s only Uther they get warned of, and not him. He’s pretty harmless, he feels.

 

“Arthur, you’re supposed to keep these covered,” Leon tuts, examining the marks on Arthur’s arms.

 

“My ankle’s still bandaged,” Arthur murmurs.

 

His eyes are shut, he realises. He’s so tired, even after napping all the journey here. He can hear Morgana’s pen scratching away.

 

“Don’t warn the lady Gwenevere away, Morgana. I like her company. Perhaps she will write my play for me,” Arthur says.

 

Leon is bandaging his arms back up. Arthur tugs one out of Leon’s grasp and swats at the doctor, wanting them off. He’s been wrapped up in sheets for ages, he wants to be naked. He wants to have all his clothes off.

 

“[With presented nakedness I’ll out-face the winds and persecutions of the sky](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Lear),” Arthur mutters, rising from the couch.

 

He wanders from room to room in the great house until he discovers his own chambers. He knows better than to take his clothing off in the grounds of the house, or in front of guests. Doctor Leon Strong might be an old old friend of the family, but still Uther names him guest. Arthur sighs and removes his doublet and jerkin and britches, his boots and underthings, and the bandage around his leg. He stands naked in the middle of the room and looks around for a patch of sunshine.

 

He lies on the floor under the window and stretches himself out, letting his body sink into the hand floor, into the cold stone flags. It’s nice, not to be wrapped up warm and safe and coddled. He flexes his weak muscles in the sunshine, resting, eyes closed, soaking up the sunshine. He must doze off, because he’s next out in the storm, like Poor Tom, like the beggars of Bedlam.

 

And then Uther is lifting him into arms, holding him, weeping over him. Arthur opens his eyes and stares at his father in shock. Uther doesn’t notice, just goes on shouting and weeping. Morgana comes running and kneels, and then Leon, both white and scared looking. Arthur smiles.

 

“He’s not dead, Uther,” Morgana says. “Look, he was just sleeping.”

 

“Where are his clothes? Why is he naked? He’s so cold,” Uther says, then he looks down and sees Arthur’s eyes open. His face hardens. “Is this a trick? You are a naughty child, you silly boy!”

 

Uther scoops him up from the floor like a doll and carries him to the bed, scolding all the way. Arthur feels small again, like a child. He lies obediently under the covers, pressing his feet to warm bricks when they’re brought. He is chilled. He lets Leon bandage him back up, and dress him in warm night-clothes, a nice warm hat.

 

“I’m going to write a play,” Arthur tells Leon. “Lady Gwenevere is going to write it out for me, in ink.”

 

“No she isn’t,” Morgana says. “Lady Gwenevere has other things to do.”

 

“My play is more important than your pleasure,” Arthur gripes.

 

Morgana scowls at him, and Arthur remembers his father’s presence. He apologises, but the damage is done. His father notices nothing, of course, but Morgana’s face hardens. Lady Gwenevere will come write his play, but he will have no friendship from Morgana this stay. Leon will probably not give him much time, either, preferring Morgana’s company.

 

“Well, more time for my play,” Arthur tells them.

 

Most of the conversation happens silently, and Uther gives him a strange look, as if he’s speaking to himself. Leon and Morgana both know he’s not, but neither of them helps explain. They leave his father to think he’s mad.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“The plague has closed the theaters, again,” Gwenevere says, tossing a letter aside.

 

She’s curled in the window seat, Arthur lying on a couch, Morgana in the gardens. Arthur thinks Gewnevere is probably watching Morgana. Uther is away for business, visiting a friend, for three weeks. Morgana has been having guests again. Arthur is proud of the trust, even though she’s still not talking to him. 

 

“Only to be expected,” Arthur says. “In 1603 thousands died. We don’t need that again.”

 

“You’d think in five years they’d come up with some kind of cure,” Gwenevere says, then gives Arthur an assessing look. “Then again. Looking at you, I have my doubts about medical men.”

 

“What’s wrong with me?” Arthur asks, holding up his arms and examining them. 

 

They’re heavily bandaged right now, but still stained red. He’s bleeding again, he thinks, behind the layers of cloth. The lady Gwenevere tuts, but doesn’t say anything more. 

 

“Leon has been talking about trying leeches, while father is away,” Arthur says. “Leeches are better than knives. I think you’re right. We need a better reason for revenge. Maybe we could kill a father. Patricide. And then there can be a fire.”

 

“I’ve already written it three times, I’m not doing it again,” Gwenevere says. 

 

“If the theatres are closed… there must be lots of actors looking for work…” Arthur says. 

 

“I have a friend. If you pay well, he’ll come,” Gwenevere says.

 

“He? I rather thought you were-” Arthur stops talking, hearing someone beyond the door. 

 

It’s just Morgana, though, come to fetch Gwenevere away. Arthur’s left alone. He unwraps himself from his bandaging and examines the cuts. He untangles himself from the swelter of blankets, too. He’s just about to get started on getting out of some other layers when Leon walks in and gives him a stern look. Arthur tries to look innocent. 

 

“Have you seen your sister?” Leon asks.

 

“She’s my father’s ward, not my sister, and she’s busy,” Arthur says. “Go away. We don’t want you here. You’re a butcher. Cook says so.”

 

Leon doesn’t react to Arthur’s petulance or rudeness, he just shrugs and leaves again. Arthur hits the couch with a weak fist and storms through some tears. When he calms down, there’s someone else in the doorway. Arthur blinks away the moisture, and his breath catches. The man is beautiful, lit by the sunshine, and smiling. At Arthur. 

 

“Hello,” he says, stepping into the room. 

 

“Good afternoon,” Arthur says, pushing himself to sit up. “I’m Arthur.”

 

“Yes. I’m Elyan Smith? My sister’s here, I believe?”

 

“Who?”

 

“The Lady Gwenevere?” 

 

“Oh. Yes, she’s here,” Arthur says, dismissively, waving a hand as if she’s in a cupboard or under a table. “Come sit with me, for a bit? May I call you Elyan?”

 

Elyan looks amused, but he indulges Arthur, sitting in one of the chairs, crossing his legs neatly. He’s got very well-kept boots on, and expensive clothes, and he’s wonderful underneath, his body looks strong and healthy. Arthur smiles at him. 

 

“I’ll call for tea, shall I?” Arthur says, reaching for the bell. 

 

It’s out of reach, and he has to haul himself to his feet and totter over. By the time he sits back, he’s tired, sweaty, and very aware of his own weakness and paleness next to Elyan. He feels like a ghost, as if he barely exists. 

 

“I am lord Pendragon,” Arthur says. “Heir to all of this. Are you one of our tennents?”

 

“No, we are your neighbours,” Elyan says, offence clear in his voice. 

 

Arthur shrugs, as if Elyan must be far below his notice. Knowles comes in with a knock, floating, like he doesn’t exist either. Arthur orders him to fetch them something to drink, and something sweet, and then dismisses him before Elyan can ask for anything. 

 

“I should really find my sister,” Elyan says, definitely annoyed now. 

 

Arthur smiles at him again, pleased with himself. He might be weak and powerless in body, but here he is affecting and effecting the world around him. 

 

“You’d think I’m a bastard, from my behaviour and vissage,” Arthur says. “I’m not, my parents were married. My father wonders, sometimes, because of the way I look. But there’s too much of my mother in me for him to ever make anything of it.”

 

“I think nothing, sir,” Elyan says, with mock-servility that Arthur likes. The sharpness of his tone, his acidity. 

 

“We should change that. Thinking is the poor man’s bread and butter,” Arthur says. 

 

“You must think little then. You are full of nothing, no bread nor butter nor meat.”

 

Arthur laughs, and gets up again, making his slow careful way over to the writing table. He finds a pen and some paper, and rests, then brings it over to Elyan, holding it out. Elyan takes both, and waits. 

 

“Write it, write it!” Arthur says. “I have no turn for comedy. I need good insults and come-backs, for my play. Any puns you know, also.”

 

“You are beyond belief,” Elyan says. 

 

“Yes. Lord Pendragons must be, we are something special,” Arthur says, collapsing back to the couch. 

 

Elyan goes to get ink and then sits, paper resting on his thigh.

 

“Just write what you think of me,” Arthur whispers. “But make it funny.”

 

Elyan snorts, an undignified, informal sound that sets Arthur’s teeth on edge but also charms him. He’s tired, and he falls asleep to the scratch of Elyan’s pen. When he wakes he’s alone, the pages pinned under the ink pot, the pen set back on the writing table. 

 

Two weeks later, Arthur is in the garden, in a wicker chair, wrapped in blankets. He has unbadaged limbs now, and no new cuts. Just sores from where the leeches have been. Uther won’t countenance no bleeding, but when he’s not there to supervise Leon will sometimes give in to Arthur begging not to be sliced open. Without Uther standing guard, it is easier to influence the good doctor. Though, Arthur thinks it’s more Gwenevere’s influence than his own. Gwenevere influences Morgana, who influences Leon. Arthur influences no one. 

 

“My sister tells me you never learnt your letters,” Elyan says, coming through the gardens. 

 

“I can read,” Arthur says. “I taught myself. When I write the letters out, though, they are shaky and illegible, mis-sized, badly formed. Like me.”

 

“Your father didn’t see fit to educate you?” Elyan asks, sinking gracefully to sit in the grass at Arthur’s side. 

 

Arthur looks around to check for anyone minding him. When he finds himself alone with Elyan, he gets out of the chair and pushes it away. He puts the blankets on the ground and sits on them, stretching his legs out in front of him, setting his hands in the grass. He smiles at Elyan, and Elyan smiles back. 

 

“He did not. I was not meant to live, I was supposed to die. I am mad. I am no use to him, so he sees no point in wasting money on me,” Arthur says. “He takes me with him from one house to another, and awaits my demise. I say I am heir, but only in name. In reality, Morgana will have it all, when my father dies. I will be long buried.”

 

“You’re terribly cheerful,” Elyan says. “Gwen tells me you read dramas, and frequent the theatre?”

 

“Only when my father is away and doesn’t know I’m going,” Arthur says. “He lets me have the actors come here, in the summer months, sometimes. There are some coming to learn my pay.”

 

“Ah yes, your play. Gwen’s told me about that, as well.”

 

“It’s terrible,” Arthur says. “The Lady Gwenevere says I don’t need help making it comedy, because already it is terribly funny.”

 

“I know the man coming. He’s a good playwright, perhaps he can help.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“I have read most of Seneca. Would you like to talk about that?”

 

Arthur shakes his head and shuts his eyes, tilting his head back. Elyan talks of a merchant expedition he’s funding, instead. Colourful stories of foreign places, beautiful things bought for glass beads, people who look like savages and wear nothing. Arthur thinks that sounds rather fine. 

 

“They all are imbalanced, like me,” Arthur says. “Born wrong. Perhaps they too killed their parents with their evilness.”

 

“I think that they are merely stories. People tell them of my sister and I, sometimes, too. Of anyone who is not marked obviously by Grace. John Calvin is a clever man and I have read his tracts and enjoy his writings, but I do not think he has done anything beyond stipulate what Grace might look like. It seems to me that is for God to see. We need not wonder about it. We are each blessed in different ways, and we cannot say what that looks like to God, how He sees. The marks of a bastard are writ by man, the marks of imbalance and evil are writ by man.”

 

Arthur smiles, lying back, and listens to Elyan’s voice roll over him, getting strident as he talks theology. He knows more about God and the Bible than Arthur does. Arthur knows the stories and has read some of the verse, but he’s always been more interested in dramatic retellings of the stories than the Bible itself. 

 

“There’s a coach approaching,” Elyan says, idly, a little later, lying back with Arthur now. “Perhaps it is your father. I should find my sister.”

 

“Uther’s not due back for another week, and will probably stay away longer. It’s not him,” Arthur says. “He never comes back early. He doesn’t enjoy either my company or Morgana’s. They’re safe.”

 

“You know, then?” Elyan says. 

 

“Yes, I know.”

 

“Who might it be, then?” Elyan asks, sitting up. 

 

Arthur sits up too and shields his face, trying to see what Elyan’s talking about. He can see nothing but bright spots, though, and then his vision greys out. He leans back again and shuts his eyes. 

 

“Oh! It’s Merlin!” Elyan says, leaping to his feet and running off. 

 

Arthur’s left on his back, unable to get up. He should have stayed in his chair. The change in elevation always makes him sick and dizzy. He manages to sit again, and keeps his eyes shut until he balances. 

 

Ten minutes later he’s finally made it to his feet. He grips his stick and makes the slow, arduous walk back to the house. Knowles comes to help him up the steps and to announce that the actors Arthur invited have arrived, and are being received in the light drawing room by Morgana. Arthur nods and makes his way there, asking Knowles to have something to drink sent. 

 

There’s a young, thin man sat between Elyan and Gwenevere, in the drawing room. His heels are high, showing off beautiful calves encased in white stockings. His collar is modest, drawing attention from his clothing to his face. Mobile, elegant, Arthur stumbles and nearly falls, distracted. The man looks up, and his eyes are piercing blue. 

 

“Good grief, Arthur,” Morgana says. “You are clumsy as a new born foal, but ugly as a toad. Sit, before you hit the floor and I have to explain a broken nose to Uther again.”

 

Arthur sits beside her on the couch, and stares at the guest. 

 

“This is Merlin Emerson,” the Lady Gwenevere says. 

 

“Lord Pendragon,” Arthur says. “Arthur. I’m Arthur. Your this lady’s actor?”

 

“I am an actor. A business owner, actor, playwright, and, when I have the time, poet.”

 

“Then you are exactly who I need,” Arthur says. “You shall stay here. Where is your troup? You haven’t sent them to that dreadful inn, have you? What’s it called, Morgana?”

 

“The Rising Sun,” Morgana says. 

 

“I have an engagement to show a play there, they have offered free board,” Emmerson says. 

 

“You’re Irish,” Arthur says. “I can hear it. Are you Catholic? I don’t mind, I won’t have you arrested, nor will any here. I am merely curious.”

 

“I’m not Catholic,” Emmerson says. 

 

“Oh,” Arthur says, sighing. “There goes my inside man on that. Ah well. You shall stay here, and so shall your troup. We can offer far better food than the dreadful inn. Morgana, write to father and inform him.”

 

“Write to him yourself,” Morgana says. 

 

“He can’t read my letters,” Arthur says. 

 

“He  _ won’t _ read mine,” Morgana says. 

 

“Well, you write it, I will sign it,” Arthur says. “Or, I know. Elyan can write it. He’s very good at writing things. He’s clever.”

 

“He’s also busy,” Morgana says. 

 

“He’s my friend. He’ll do it,” Arthur says. 

 

“I will do it,” Elyan agrees. 

 

“See?” Arthur says. “Thank you, Elyan.”

 

Morgana snorts indelicately, unlady-like, and Arthur beams at her, and she laughs, and smiles at him. 

 

“I’ve never heard you willingly thank someone before,” Morgana says. 

 

“I thanked you for passing me the salt at dinner last night,” Arthur says, then waves her away. “Good. It’s settled, then. Merlin Emmerson and his actors will stay here, Elyan will write to father. Morgana and Lady Gwenevere will continue to-”

 

Gwenevere cuts him off with a coughing fit. 

 

“Thank you for your generosity. However,” Emmerson begins. Arthur holds up a hand. “You can’t just order me, my lord. I am free to do as I wish, I what I wish is to stay at the inn.”

 

“Nonsense,” Arthur says. 

 

“It’s not a terrible inn, many would be pleased with such quarters.”

 

“Oh, I am not questioning your absurd wish to stay there. That much is obvious. I am questioning your assertion that I can’t order you. I can, I do, I have. You will stay under my roof, if you wish to be paid. You do wish to be paid, don’t you? I believe my father offered you a generous sum. I know that you must need the work, the theatres being closed.”

 

Merlin Emmerson looks like he wants to refuse. Arthur smiles at him. 

 

“Good. That’s settled then. You can have a comfortable room. Don’t worry, when my father learns I’ve got you all staying here, he’ll stay away,” Arthur says. “He dislikes actors. Oh, Lady Gwenevere will have a part in my play. She will dress as a man. One of your men will dress as a woman. It will be most amusing and blasphemous and cause much trouble. Very entertaining.”

 

“I do not allow women on my stage,” Emmerson says. 

 

“You do now,” Arthur says. 

 

Arthur is certain he’s going to get along famously with Emmerson. The man is seething, and it’s wonderful. Arthur smiles around the room, and is amused to find Elyan buried in his arm stifling laughter, eyes bright and helpless with mirth. They look at each other and Arthur’s smile breaks into laughter too. Elyans removes his arm and lets his become audible, and they laugh together for a long time. 

 

*

 

“[O sleep, mine eyes, see not my love profan'd; Be deaf, my ears, bear not my discontent; Die, heart: another joys what thou deserv'st](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spanish_Tragedy),” Arthur mutters. 

 

He’s lying on a couch in one of the studies his father has at the estate. It’s one Uther never uses, and Arthur has claimed it for himself. 

 

“I can’t help it if it’s terrible,” Merlin says, scratching out another line of carefully written poetry. “What does this even mean? What are ‘frosty wings of death’, Lord Pendragon?”

 

“Call me Arthur, won’t you? Anyway, I’m not the only one who’s no Thomas Kyd. What, if we’re asking for elucidation, is ‘the quiet step of eternal sleep’?”

 

“It means death is coming. So watch out.”

 

Arthur sighs. He has leeches on his chest. Leon is disapproving of treating him with Merlin there, but Arthur is fed up with leeches and threatened to jump in the river and drown them if Leon didn’t give in. 

 

“Does water drown leeches?” Arthur asks. 

 

“If I say no, will you not jump in the river?” Leon says. 

 

“Is it true?” Arthur asks. “No matter. Mr Emmerson, shall we have some doctors in our play, bleeding our actors of every drop to balance their madness?”

 

“You are not mad, Lord Pendragon. Merely troublesome,” Merlin says. “We already have a doctor.”

 

“You do?” Leon asks, his implacability breaking, curious of something for once in his boring life. 

 

“Yes. He fillets a man like a fish,” Merlin says. “I want to remove that bit, but Lord Pendragon is a nuisance.”

 

“I am,” Arthur agrees happily. “I’m very annoying.”

 

Merlin smiles. That’s not very usual, and Arthur turns to watch. The room tilts and spins, and Arthur has to squeeze his eyes shut. 

 

“Leon, can we stop? Please. I feel so sick,” Arthur whispers, forgetting his play and his audience and reaching to catch at the doctor’s sleeve. “I feel so sick. This doesn’t help me. Please, it doesn’t help, my father’s not here to know. Just leave me be.”

 

“I have my orders. I think I know a little more of medicine than you, anyway, Lord Pendragon. Perhaps I’ll suggest that, after all, religious intervention may be the better course?” 

 

“Leon,” Arthur says, hand falling away. He covers his face. 

 

He knows what religious intervention is. For years as a child he was prayed over, laid out in the church. He had priests trying all kinds of things to expel the demons from him. He had to sit and listen to many many lessons and attend church almost constantly, several times a day. His belief in that kind of God had been severely shaken by the things the priests tried. 

 

He hasn’t set foot in a church unless his father has absolutely insisted in years, since Leon started treating him instead. He likes the way Elyan thinks about God. Elyan’s God sounds kinder and gentler than the one who cares not if little boys are vessels for the Devil, a creature of His own creation as much as Man might be. 

 

“Then be good and lie still,” Leon says. 

 

“He is no child, Doctor Strong. He asked you to stop, I believe. Bullying a man when he has no strength to defend himself is nothing short of criminal. I believe we shall have that doctor after all. I think the name Fortem has a nice ring to it.”

 

“What’s Fortem?” Arthur asks. 

 

“Strong,” Leon says, grimly. “Very well, Mr Emmerson. I assume you too have a medical degree, and are widely read in the most up to date cures for mental disease?”

 

“Of course I’m not, you donkey’s pizzle. I am merely humane and observant. You on the other hand are blind as a bat and cruel. Get on your way, or I shall be writing to Lord Uther Pendragon with an accusation of abuse.”

 

The leeches are removed from Arthur’s body, and Leon leaves. Arthur keeps his arm over his face, bandages that cover sores from leeches soaking up his tears. 

 

“Doctor Fortem, then,” Merlin says, pen scritching. “I think he might be implicated in the death of Lady Julia. He might induce a man to kill, with a certain herb, perhaps? Or devil’s intervention?”

 

“Herbs,” Arthur says. “Thank you, Mr Emmerson. Would you help me dress? I am chilled, and my doctor has been scared away.”

 

Merlin comes over and helps Arthur sit up. His hands are very gentle, and he’s very good at helping. Arthur leans into him, and is suddenly aware of strength and muscle he hadn’t noticed before. He leans harder, sighing, and Merlin laughs softly. 

 

“You’re far from subtle, Lord Pendragon. I thought you had your eye on Elyan?” Merlin says.

 

“Might we use first names?” Arthur asks, tipping his head back to look winningly at Merlin. 

 

“That seems unprofessional.”

 

“I am your patron, surely? That must be a close collaborative relationship,” Arthur says. “We must know one another inside out, and trust one another.”

 

“You bullied me into staying in your house, and threatened me, and told me in no uncertain terms that you all-but-own me,” Merlin says. 

 

He sounds amused about it, instead of cross, which is an improvement. Arthur sighs, closing his eyes, not putting it on this time. 

 

“Don’t move, please?” Arthur asks softly. “I haven’t had a body close to me for comfort in a long while, save my father lifting me as if I were a babe.”

 

“Was that for comfort?” 

 

“His comfort. Mr Emmerson, Merlin, I have no way of getting people’s interest or friendship. I am invisible except as an object of pity. I have found rudeness a great comforter and a comfortable hide-away. I exert my authority over people because I have none, in reality. There is nothing to me. I am a ghost.”

 

“Then I shall call you Arthur. I still say no pirates, however. The high seas are no place for the lady Julia of Verona. Her lover can be from Bohemia. Perhaps he can tell a daring tale of pirates.”

 

“And Doctor Fortem can be one of the dastardly evil pirates, a bastard marked by a twisted lip, who cuts people to death in the name of balancing them. He can have a false medical degree and really be nothing but a murderer. He induces Lady Julia’s love to kill her.”

 

“There. You shall have your pirates after all.”

 

Arthur closes his eyes. Merlin’s arm holds him steady, and Merlin’s body protects and warms him, and he’s asleep before he can help himself, breathing heavily into Merlin’s shoulder. He dreams about whiteness. White everywhere he looks. It streaks with red blood as he gazes around, and drowns him.. 

 

“I can do nothing. Bleeding is the accepted medical cure for imbalanced humours. Uther will accept no other reason for Arthur’s simplicity.”

 

“He isn’t simple, Gwen.”

 

“Mad, then. Uther cares for him. He could easily have Arthur locked up, or left to fend for himself. He doesn’t. I can do nothing. Neither can Morgana. She befriends and courts Leon Strong, and that is the most she can do. I hear you did a little more. Shall we see what happens, when he is not losing his blood every day?”

 

Arthur wakes up properly. He’s been laid back on the sofa, and Merlin’s sat across the room, with Gwenevere and Elyan. They’re talking about him. Arthur blinks at them, wondering what they might mean. He is simple, and mad. He has been told so. He must be. The other explanation is he is part devil, or possessed by demons. To have committed such a terrible thing as matricide one must be. 

 

“Her eyes were wide open, I could not close them, they would not close, 

My hands shake; still they bear the stain of her death, red, bright red, 

I know not how the blade came to be at her throat. At night the wind moans

Through my shutters in her voice. I cannot sleep, I live on borrow’ed 

Time. I killed my mother and have a curse set upon me. 

 

And then Doctor Fortem can say: 

 

Rumour spreads, and I have heard that you have taken into your bed

One Julia of Verona? She is a weaver of lies and embodies devils. 

If you take that same blade you used to tear the flesh that bore you, 

The most up to date medical science suggests, on the night she bled

For you and breathed her last, the imbalance you caused will level.

A demon for a demon, the world will be cleansed. Show 

The devil you are rightous. Burn out the heart that beats false, 

And lay Julie of Verona at the altar of all.”

 

“I take it you tired of Leon?” Elyan says. 

 

“I did,” Arthur says. “You speak Latin?”

 

“He speaks French and Ancient Greek and Spanish as well,” Gwenevere says. “He gets bored and learns new things.”

 

“I think we should write in a character who haunts the house. Turn it domestic. Julia is killed by her nameless lover, induced by the doctor. Then there can be a mad-man, brother to Julia. The lover can persuade him he has imagined Julia’s death being murder, and that she died peacefully. He can rave. It will be his revenge. The lover will murder Doctor Fortem. There will be a lord visiting, and he will listen to Mad Tom, and the lover will be hanged,” Merlin says. 

 

“We must hang my father,” Arthur murmurs, eyes sliding shut again. He catches sight of Lady Gwenevere’s shocked face, and realise what he just said. “I meant the play. Mad Tom has been locked up in the house by his father, and his father dies of grief after Julia’s death, and when they hang the lover, Mad Tom can hang his dead father’s body.”

 

“You’re a strange man, Arthur,” Elyan murmurs. 

 

“I’m not. I’m just mad,” Arthur says. 

 

He fingers the marks across his stomach. Scored by himself, in the night, when he was small. To get the demons out. His father says they mark him as mad and unnatural. I love you, his father says, but here he is, covered in scars, helpless before his friends. Two men who he wanted, and neither of which he can have. Neither of whom see him as anything but Mad Tom locked in his sister’s house. 

 

“Mad Tom should have the epilogue,” Arthur says. “I shall compose it.”

 

“I can write it out for you,” Gwenevere says. 

 

“No. I shall write it out. You shall speak it,” Arthur says. “Gwenevere, you shall speak it. You will be Mad Tom. The audience will think you are the clown, but you won’t be.”

 

Arthur wants everyone to go away, so he yells and hits the couch until they leave. Gwenevere draws Elyan away, but Merlin sits, looking decidedly unimpressed with Arthur’s storm of emotion. Arthur starts to cry, and then sobs. He turns on his side so his back’s to Merlin and sobs until he feels sick to his stomach. 

 

“Would you like me to hold you again?” Merlin asks. 

 

“Yes,” Arthur says, tears slowing. 

 

Merlin takes him into his arms, and holds him. Arthur slows, breathing deep and wet against Merlin. Safe again. 

 

“I’m not mad,” Arthur whispers. “I’m not mad.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur is walking. His arm is linked with Merlin. He’s already walked a fair bit from the house, almost to the river. He’s a little breathless and weak, but he’s still upright. He’s not dizzy. He spots Elyan lying on the bank, boots off, in breeches and shirt-sleeves. He’s not alone; beside him is Sir Gwaine Green. More on top of him, really, twisted together in the grass, hands knitted, mouths pressed tight together. Gwaine moves his mouth down over Elyan’s neck and Elyan moans. 

 

“Good afternoon,” Arthur says stiffly, leaning on Merlin’s arm, too shocked to do anything except cry. 

 

He manages not to cry. Somehow it’s easier not to cry these days. Gwaine and Elyan leap apart and up, Elyan nearly falling into the river. Arthur takes a step forward, and Elyan steps back. Into the river. Gwaine looks at the water, waiting for Elyan to surface and splash for the bank, then turns to grin at Arthur. 

 

“Hello,” Gwaine says. 

 

“Your lover is muddy,” Arthur says. 

 

“So he is,” Gwaine says, chin rising, refusing to be ashamed. 

 

“Mr Emmerson, this is Sir Gwaine Green. He’s Irish too, and he IS Catholic. He refuses to be a proper Catholic though, so he’s useless to me. Come, we shall walk further,” Arthur says. 

 

He tries to draw Merlin onward, but Merlin goes to shake Gwaine’s hand and make his aquaintance, introducing himself properly. He also offers commiseration to Elyan. Arthur’s left standing on his own. He stares at Elyan, heart beating too hard against his ribs.  _ You’re not subtle _ Merlin had said. He isn’t, it’s true. 

 

“You should have said something,” Arthur says loudly. 

 

Elyan straightens up and turns on Arthur, eyes sharp and dangeous. 

 

“Oh yes? Should I, indeed? And be put in the stockade, torn to pieces by a crowd? You know what they do to sodomites, I’m sure. And you would paint me as such, wouldn’t you, Lord Pendragon? I know that name. Was John Lewisham guilty of anything, other than in the eyes of a cruel and stupid God?” Elyan says. 

 

“It is a sin, unnatural, foul, and a sign of internal deformity,” Arthur says. “Buggering Sir Gwaine is-”

 

Arthur gets no further, because Elyan gives him a cool look, and pushes him into the river. Arthur screams, high and thin and terrified, as he’s engulfed by water. _[Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamlet)_ _.  _ But Arthur had cried. He had. _[A darksome place, and dangerous to pass: There shall you meet with melancholy thoughts, Whose baleful humours if you but uphold, It will conduct you to Despair and Death.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spanish_Tragedy)_ __ The water was supposed to bring him out, to take the melancholy away, but he had cried. 

 

“....and may God gut you into fish fillets and toss you on a fire and bake your blasted pizzle and send you down to hell and turn you into…”

 

Arthur coughs, choking up water, shuddering, entire body twitching and jerking. His coughing turns to vomiting and his stomach turns itself inside out. At least, he thinks, he’s expelling some of the bile. He opens his eyes. Yellow bile. Or closer to yellow than black. Sort of watery white-ish yellow. Arthur vomits again with that thought, stomach twisting. 

 

“...you welt on the buttocks of a horned bull! You cuckold, you bastard, you whore’s canker!...”

 

Arthur gasps in a breath, and the world resolves itself. 

 

“Oh. Hello Arthur.”

 

Gwaine. Gwaine had been cursing. 

 

“Write them down,” Arthur gasps. 

 

“You, my friend, are wet,” Gwaine says. “I can’t write them down, I don’t have paper. They’re nothing new, I have already listed them for you.”

 

“Who were you cross with?” Arthur whispers. 

 

“Elyan. He pushed you in the river. You can’t swim,” Gwaine says. “Merlin fished you out. Quite a handy gentleman, that one. And Irish. I like a good Irish Gentleman.”

 

“He’s not Catholic,” Arthur says. 

 

“Well, we can’t have everything,” Gwaine says. 

 

“I didn’t know you couldn’t swim,” Elyan says. 

 

“I deserved a thorough dunking,” Arthur admits. “Wish you’d said, I feel a fool.”

 

“I was afraid,” Elyan says. 

 

“Now we’re all wet, save for Gwaine,” Arthur says. 

 

“No,” Gwaine says. 

 

Arthur wishes he had the strength to follow through and shove Gwaine into the river, too, but he doesn’t. He’s not sure he even has the strength to get to his feet. 

 

“It’s supposed to balance melancholy,” Arthur says, looking to the river. 

 

Merlin’s knelt beside it, wringing out clothing and laying it out to dry. He looks over when Arthur says that, and he looks angry. 

 

“Water, humours, bile, balance,” Merlin scoffs. “Medical science is nothing more than cracked old men making up stories.”

 

“It’s Greek,” Arthur says. 

 

“Yes, exactly! Who would trust the Greeks? Have you heard their myths?”

 

Arthur laughs, and it sets him coughing which brings Merlin over. He sits beside Arthur, as if they’re staying here, languishing by the river. Arthur is surprised, but not averse to the idea. He quite likes it. He’s cold, but he’s always cold. He’s tired, but he’s always tired. He’s sore, but he’s always sore. 

 

“Help me sit up,” he demands. 

 

All three of them do so, too many hands gripping his body. Then he’s upright, slouched against Merlin’s side, and Merlin is warm even though he’s wet. Elyan and Gwaine leave, when they’re sure Arthur’s alright. They walk hand in hand away, along the river, away from the estate and Elyan’s house and towards open countryside, and peace. 

 

“Water balances fire. I used to get so angry. You’ve seen me in a temper,” Arthur says. “Then father decided I must have an excess of blood, that I must care little for the fate of others, to have killed my mother. I must be bled, to keep me from hurting people.”

 

“That isn’t how Humourism works,” Merlin murmurs. 

 

“I know. Doctor Strong thought that I had a mania, which means too much blood. He treated me for that. It coincided, happily, with my father’s feelings on the matter,” Arthur says. “Then, I’m always cold, and my body’s heavy, and I’m too pensive. Too much black bile. More bleeding, and then… when my father is home, Doctor strong gives me an antimonial cup, to rid my stomach of the morbid black bile.”

 

“He makes you vomit.”

 

“Yes. I also must be kept warm. Sometimes I must be put in water as hot as it can be made until I am hot. There are so many things they have done, and nothing makes a difference, I just keep on getting madder, and now mostly they just do the blood-letting,” Arthur says. “The priests liked the water, too. We visited many holy sites. I was baptised many times. I was put in water and held under until the demons were expelled, until they ran away from the blessed water. Only, they never ran.”

 

“I could stay forever, and your father would never return. He doesn’t like actors,” Merlin says. 

 

“You are warm. I am cold. You balance me.”

 

Merlin walks Arthur back to the estate, then leaves him to rest. Arthur doesn’t want to be left to rest. He has no choice, though. He is mad, and ill.

 

*

 

“Doctor Leon Strong, sir,” Knowles says, bowing. 

 

Arthur, sat at the table reading, looks up and welcomes the doctor in with a smile. Arthur’s got some weight on his bones, and he’s sure his colour is less white. He’s been feeling less dizzy and confused, as well. He's not feeling terribly cross with Leon. Leon looks him over, and smiles in return. 

 

“Not here to bleed me, are you?” Arthur asks. 

 

“On your father’s orders, I am indeed here for that. However, you seem well. Very well.”

 

“I think Mr Emmerson balances my humours a little.”

 

“Perhaps. Perhaps you have been walking?”

 

“Yes, a little.”

 

“Perhaps you have been eating hot foods, and seeing to it that you do not get chilled?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Many things can balance you out. I am glad that you are better. If, indeed, it is an effect of my absence, I shall keep it.”

 

“I miss your company, even if I do not miss your cures.”

 

Leon sighs, and sits near Arthur. He draws bread to himself, and an apple. Arthur pours him wine. 

 

“I have spoken to some colleagues,” Leon says. “There is a man, Harvey, who is developing another theory of the blood. It may have some bearing on your case, it may not. Galenic medicine is what I know, what I have been told. It is hard for me to think that I may have been harming, not helping, all these long years.”

 

“Morgana thinks you are not a gentleman,” Arthur says. 

 

“Yes, well, your sister thinks many things. I have never actively sought to harm you. Nor have I put your comfort or well being aside for your father’s whims. Many times I have spoken up for you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“There were many times your father wished to expose you to fevers, and I talked him out of it. Times he wanted to keep you in the city when I persuaded him you would be safer here.”

 

“I thank you for it, as I did at the time.”

 

“As you did. Arthur, you are so much clearer! You speak without confusion. Have you stopped breaking into verse?”

 

Arthur laughs. The door opens and Merlin wanders into the room, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He starts when he sees Leon, and narrows his eyes. Arthur waves him over and pours him wine.

 

“No, I have not. I am still terrible. Merlin is struggling to make anything out of my scribblings. I have faith, though. He will persevere. In the mean-time, his troupe is being well-entertained by Morgana’s friend, Viscountess Faulkland. She has a new play that she is showing us, a tragedy. It is very good.”

 

“That is a play I would not object to putting on,” Merlin says. 

 

“But written by a woman, Merlin. You said you would not countenance having one on stage!”

 

“It is less safe to put a woman on stage in London, in the theater, where she may be seen, than at a country estate. My troupe is also working for their bread and butter at the local inn, doctor. We are not simply living off Lord Pendragon.”

 

“Good. I cannot stay, Arthur. I am glad to see you well, very glad. If I might see you in a week?” Leon says. 

 

“Yes, please do,” Arthur says. 

 

Leon leaves and Merlin watches him go, face still dark with suspicion. 

 

“My eyes are bright to see you thus heavy with grief, my lord. 

Will you not tell me what this burden is you carry?

I sense that it is this which stops us being bound in happy accord, 

And yet what this might be you will not tell. Julia of Verona

Is not used to being told that reason forces her to tarry, 

When all she wishes is for love, and for you: to marry. 

 

“For act one scene one? I think the prologue should be the lover talking of his curse and showing the bodily marks it has left,” Merlin says. 

 

“Will you write it?”

 

“If you like. You are working on an epilogue?” 

 

“I think so. I mean I am, but I’m not sure of it. I cannot write it out,” Arthur says, tearing his bread to stop his hand clenching into a fist and beating the table. 

 

“Tell me?”

 

“If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended: that you have but-”

 

“Lord Pendragon,” Merlin says, then laughs. 

 

“If poor Mad Tom has crossed the sensibilities of these gentles, 

He cares not much. Phlegm had stopped his throat, he cannot

tell you more. This tale was his, from start to end, his restless

Spirit stirred your air and told you stories. Out they trot, out they trot, 

The lies and curses, tongues that trip as they speak. I hanged 

Here my father, he who took my freedom and my heart. 

 

Poor Mad Tom, he wanders in the cold now, and the rain. 

Your pity must be stirred, no charitable gentle could withstand

This, surely? Yet do not despair, Mad Tom, for his part, 

Is not chilled, nor sun-hot, nor dry. I am no longer in pain. 

God grants blessings to the meek, in storms, and spares

Those who have no more to give. I am Mad Tom, yet

 

Sit not amazéd when you hear that madness has been dispersed. 

Balance can be found in unlooked for places, and all my cares

My griefs and fears have played out, my story wefted

Woven into words that you all heard, before your stare

I have been freed. In curséd union was I beget, 

But all has been undone, and while death has burned

Bile black, Mad Tom has had his sanity returned.”

 

“We can work with that,” Merlin says. “Yes, that is a good start. Shall I write it out, to be remembered, so you can work from a copy?”

 

“Yes,” Arthur says. 

 

Merlin bows his head, and Arthur watches his hand move swiftly over pages. He repeats the verse for Merlin, changing little things here and there as he goes. Merlin gives him quick smiles and nods and hums at the bits he likes. Arthur closes his eyes as he reaches the end, and keeps the image of Merlin, sun-lit, warm with his ease and quiet, pen on paper. 


	4. Chapter 4

> [ _And burn, yet burning you will love the smart,/ When you shall feel the weight of true desire,/ So pleasing, as you would not wish your part/ Of burden should be missing from that fire_ ](https://sidneycoterie.wikispaces.com/Mary+Wroth%27s+A+crowne+of+Sonnets+dedicated+to+Love)
> 
>  
> 
> [ _A bloody one. / I have kiss'd poison for't, strok'd a serpent…_ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Changeling_\(play\))

  


“If father were to die, it would be like a new Mariam tragedy,” Arthur murmurs. “He’s sure come back. Lazarus. Jesus. Herod.”  
  
“Oh Arthur do shut up,” Morgana says.  
  
They’re in Arthur’s bedroom, Arthur wrapped in blankets. He’s caught a chill, and his chest is rattling with his breathing, his nose is clogged, his head is aching. Leon came and tutted over him and told him to have a hot bath, then ran away from the disease-ridden house. Just in case it was the plague.

 

“Merlin’s finishing my play. They’re going to act it next week,” Arthur says. “Are we inviting people to come watch? Elizabeth Cary? Sidney’s niece?”

 

“Lady Mary Wroth. I’ve only met her once,” Morgana says. “I’ll invite my friends, including Elizabeth.”

 

“If father died, we could live here. With Lady Gwenevere, and Elyan and Gwaine could come and… and I… I could…” Arthur holds up his arm, untangling it from the blanket, and examines the scarring. Some of them are deep enough to ache.

 

“He loves you, at least,” Morgana murmurs, pensive.

 

“And you?” Arthur asks.

 

“I am his ward, nothing more. Never more. If I were more, I would be bastard, and my features are flawless. My Grace is obvious, but what stain would that confession leave?”

 

Arthur’s breath catches, and he reaches out, hand tight around her wrist.

 

“It is nothing, Arthur. A mere fancy,” Morgana says.

 

Arthur says nothing. He allows her to draw away. He wishes, though, more than ever, that his father were gone. Really and truly gone. He feels his sin working it’s way into his skin, wreaking it’s damage. He has little beauty left for it to mar, so he doesn’t worry. Morgana leaves, fleeing the room, and Arthur is left alone to his thoughts.

 

His cough keeps him uncomfortably from sleep. His chest and stomach ache with the effort of coughing. His stomach never sits well, too often forced by the cup, tries to empty itself when the coughing goes on. He retches, swallowing against the swell of bile. Let it up, it’ll balance you, Leon always says. Arthur distracts himself.

 

He wiles away the hours lying in bed composing.

 

_“Weary, weary, I laid me down to sleep, alighted to the grass,_

_A soft and goodly bed it made for me, and slumb’ring soft,_

_My waking senses slipped away. In sleep, into a glass_

_I gazed, deviz’d by hell-dreaded might, Athena, Glaukopis_

_Gazed back at me. Or like to her to in beauty, so flashing eyed,_

_A sky so blue Gloriana’s dyes could never touch that bright._

_And as I dreamt to me it seemed that gently, softly, at my side_

_Glaukopis lay. With pale skin, white-shining like armoured knights,_

_Cheek that pinked and flushed with summer’s hue, and oh,_

_Such beauty never saw the sun. Delightful love was made to me_

_And words were spake that ear could ne’r recall, and Cupid’s bow_

_Met in the rose of lips that strew the pearls. Sun chased sleep,_

_And woke I alone. No press of grass to show where lay_

_My love, but love I did, and love I knew, even in the light of day.”_

 

He mumbles as he goes, working over words until he finds the one he needs. He speaks it through to keep it safely stored in his memory. It’s not until someone sighs that he realises his audience. He opens his eyes and finds Merlin, standing in the doorway, eyes on Arthur.

 

“Glaukopis Athena,” Arthur murmurs, reaching.

 

“I can’t, Arthur. I mustn’t. Uther…” Merllin says, waving a hand in a helpless gesture.

 

“Uther is dead, like Herod,” Arthur says.

 

“Like Herod.”

 

“We can live like they did, in that optimistic start,” Arthur says.

 

Merlin sighs again, and comes to Arthur. Their lips meet, and Arthur arches, body responding, a thrill racing through him. He coughs into Merlin’s shoulder, pulling him close, grasping, holding him.

 

“My blood is hot,” Arthur whispers. “It’s racing. Feel my heart race. It must be good for me. To quicken my bile and break the morbidity.”

 

“Turn common iron to gold,” Merlin whispers back, hand weaving into Arthur’s hair.

 

Arthur doesn’t know or care what he means. He presses his thumb to Merlin’s lips, and then his mouth, and then he licks into it, moaning.

  
  
  



End file.
